Timeless Enemies
by Mavelle
Summary: The detective. The doctor. The actress. The cop. Together they must thwart an attempt to change history. UPDATED: Chapter 5!!!
1. A Walk in the Park

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters created by the fabulous Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Everything else is mine.  
  
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I used to think nothing could surprise me. I mean, I live in Toronto, the Canadian equivalent of New York City, and if you live in either city, you've pretty much seen it all. Boy, was I wrong. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the experience I recently had.  
  
It all started on a Monday in August. Maybe that should have been my first clue. I mean, if things are going to go wrong, you can bet they'll pick a Monday to do it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me introduce myself first. My name is Margaret Peterson.call me Meg. I'm an actor and a costume designer by trade. That is to say, I go to a lot of auditions, get a few jobs, and pay my rent by working in a costume store and designing for the occasional show. There's not a lot of money to it, but I'm doing exactly what I've always wanted to do, and I wouldn't live my life any other way.  
  
Where was I? Right. Beautiful day in August. Anyway, I was walking home from work, and it was so nice out, I had decided to take a shortcut through High Park; I live just on the other side of it. I was strolling along through a particularly thick part of the woods, drinking in the sunshine, and not paying attention to where I was going, when I tripped over an exposed tree root. Taken by surprise I couldn't catch myself, and I fell, striking my head on a small rock. I saw stars.  
  
It seemed as if I lay dazed on the ground for hours, but really I know it was only a few seconds before I heard voices coming towards me. Two men, British accents, and they were arguing.  
  
"Watson, as God is my witness, I shall never take one of your shortcuts again!"  
  
"Now Holmes, be reasonable. We are not lost. In fact, I know precisely where we are." There was a pause. "I just don't know where Baker Street is."  
  
The two voices, came closer, still arguing, then I heard one of them gasp. Seconds later I felt my head being lifted gently off the ground, and an acrid scent wafted up my nostrils. THAT brought me back to reality in a hurry, let me tell you. I jerked into a sitting position. That is, I tried to jerk into a sitting position. In actuality, the first attempt at motion caused an explosion of pain in my head, which quickly made me reconsider the whole idea. Sitting, I decided, was over-rated.  
  
"I should lie quietly or a moment if I were you, miss," a kindly, but firm voice admonished me. "You appear to have taken a rather nasty blow to the head."  
  
I nodded silently and slowly opened my eyes to see who had come to my rescue.  
  
Kneeling beside me was a man of about thirty, concern clearly etched on his face. He had a handsome, square-jawed face, with a mustache and kind eyes. I was certain he was a doctor of some sort.he had an aura about him of someone used to putting others at ease, no matter what the situation.  
  
Standing nearby was a tall, thin man, approximately the same age, with a narrow face and a strong Roman nose. I've never liked Roman noses. He hadn't said a word yet, and stood rather aloofly, as if bored with the whole proceedings, yet I noticed that his eyes looked at me with curiosity, and a bit of suspicion.  
  
Both men were impeccably dressed, one in a dark brown suit, the other in light gray. They looked like two young businessmen, yet I had the impression that something about their clothes was odd. Being a costume designer I notice a lot about clothes, but my head was hurting too much to think hard at the moment.  
  
I decided to try sitting up again, slowly this time. The kneeling man carefully guided me up. I smiled weakly.  
  
"Thank you so much for your help," I said.  
  
"Think nothing of it, miss," the gentleman replied. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. John Watson, and this is my friend and colleague, Sherlock Homes."  
  
Holmes and Watson, Holmes and Watson.a little bell was ringing in my head. A very painful little bell. I told it to shut up.  
  
"Meg Peterson," I said, "and again, thanks. I think I'm okay now, and I should be getting home. My cat is going to be wondering what happened to me."  
  
"Please allow us to escort you home, Miss Peterson," said Dr. Watson as he helped me to my feet. "I'd like to be able to assure your guardians that you're all right."  
  
I blinked. Guardians? I know I look younger than my age (twenty-five), but I haven't even been ID'd at the bars in at least a year. I said as much to the doctor (in a polite way, of course) and was rewarded with a puzzled look. I saw his lips repeating what I'd just said, as if he didn't understand the words, and his look of concern heightened. His companion also looked momentarily confused, but recovered quickly and spoke for the first time.  
  
"Please do not be offended miss," he said smoothly. "I believe my friend merely meant whomever you are staying with."  
  
"Well, I still don't know what you mean," I said. "I live alone."  
  
The moment the words were out of my mouth I wanted to kick myself. First rule of thumb in any big city is never let them know you're a female living alone. I don't even list my full name in the phone book, only my initials. But it was too late now.  
  
"My apologies Miss Peterson," he said. "I didn't think you had been in the country that long."  
  
"What on earth made you think that?"  
  
"Well, your accent.I believe you're from Canada? And your rather singular outfit."  
  
My head was really pounding now. Who were these guys? Did he really think it remarkable that he could tell me I was from the country we were in? As for the clothes, well, I'm used to remarks about my.less than conventional mode of dress, but I was wearing a fairly ordinary skirt and top today. Right now, I just wanted to get home to an aspirin. I took a step away, and my legs started to buckle. I grabbed hold of Dr. Watson. Guess I was still a bit dizzy. I made a quick decision. After all, if they were going to rob or do anything else to me, they'd already had plenty of opportunity.  
  
"Listen, don't worry about it, no offense taken," I said quickly. "If you come with me as far as the park entrance, I can make it from there." I had no intention of telling them I lived across the road from the park.  
  
I could see Dr. Watson about to object, but then he changed his mind and offered his arm for support, which I gratefully took, trying to hide the fact that I was grateful. We progressed towards the entrance in silence. I wasn't in the mood for conversation, and neither man attempted to start any.  
  
As we walked out of the trees, I attempted to thank them again and make my escape as quickly as possible, but the words died on my lips as I stared in disbelief at what was in front of me.  
  
"Those jerks gave me a parking ticket! I can't believe this, I have a permit to park on the street!" As I ranted, I heard a strangled gasp behind me and turned. to see Holmes and Watson, staring at my car, white with shock.  
  
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Author's Note: I bet you all thought that chapter was going to end a different way! This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so please let me know what you think. 


	2. Insanity is in the Eye of the Beholder

Author's Note: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the positive reviews! I'm so glad everyone liked my little twist. *smiles*  
  
BIG WARNING: This story is slightly AU. I don't want to give too much away, so I'll just say this: you will see what appear to be mistakes about the canon. These are deliberate. Don't worry; it'll all make sense in the end.  
  
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Holmes was the first to recover from his shock. He swallowed once, twice, and then in a perfectly composed voice asked me what I called that monstrosity.  
  
"It's an Echo," I said, somewhat indignantly, "and I'll thank you not to laugh!"  
  
"An . . . echo?" He still looked confused. "Echoes are not visible things. It looks similar to a closed carriage, but . . . ."  
  
Watson, who had been staring wildly about, clutched Holmes' arm frantically.  
  
"Holmes," he rasped, pointing. "There are scores of them. And no horses!" He looked sick.  
  
Suddenly I realised what had been bothering me about their clothes. They were Victorian suits, not modern ones. Men's fashions haven't changed *that* much in the last hundred and fifty years, but there are still definite differences. Now it all (sort of) made sense! They must be actors.  
  
I'd seen this before; people who don't know when to turn off. They can be extremely tiring and annoying. Probably these guys had been on a film shoot or something, had their own costumes, and thought it would be fun to pull a joke on little old me.  
  
Ha. Ha.  
  
Just then, completely overwhelmed, Watson fainted.  
  
Holmes spun around in time to catch his friend before he hit the ground. I freaked out. I am *not* one of your calm-cool-and-collected-in-an- emergency types.  
  
"Oh Gods, is he all right?" I shrieked. "I have a cell phone, I can call 911! Try CPR!!"  
  
Holmes on the other hand was perfectly calm.  
  
"In the first place," he said, "I have no idea what you just said, and in the second, I believe Watson has merely fainted from shock. If you explore his medical bag you will find some smelling salts. Kindly hand them to me."  
  
I gave him the first bottle I found.  
  
"No, that is strychnine. I want to revive him, not kill him."  
  
Whoops. I tried another.  
  
"Thank you," he said, not sounding very grateful at all.  
  
He waved the bottle under Watson's nose, who promptly started coughing and opened his eyes. He gripped his friend by the arms.  
  
"Holmes," he said, "you can tell me the truth. Are we in Hell?"  
  
"My dear fellow," replied Holmes, "the only place where I am certain we are not, is Baker Street." He turned to me.  
  
"Miss Peterson," he said, "perhaps you would know of some place we could bring Watson? I believe he could do with a glass of brandy."  
  
I didn't know what to do. The last thing I wanted to do was let two strangers into my house, particularly two strangers as weird as these guys seemed to be. If my boyfriend ever found out, the lecture would probably never stop. He's a police officer, and if he has a fault it's that, dealing with the shady side of life on a regular basis, he worries far too much about my safety. I knew I should suggest a hospital or even just a coffee shop to rest in, and keep them far away from my home.  
  
Still, they HAD stopped to help me in the park. Most people in Toronto would have assumed I was drunk or homeless, and kept right on walking. What eventually decided me was the sight of poor Watson sitting on the ground, looking as if he was about to vomit.  
  
"Well . . . ," I said slowly, "my apartment is just across the road. I guess we could take him there."  
  
Holmes nodded briefly, helped Watson to his feet, and looked at me expectantly. I led the way to my apartment. The sight of my living room seemed to rattle Watson even more, and even Holmes betrayed a bit of surprise. I shrugged it off; after all, I'm not the neatest person in the world.  
  
I gave Watson the bottle of brandy from my liquor cabinet, then went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It's the influence of my British grandmother; I firmly believe tea cures anything.  
  
When I came back I saw Holmes staring at my wall calendar. At my approach, he spun around and grabbed me by the arms.  
  
"What is this?" he hissed, brandishing the calendar in my face, shaken out of the self-control he had displayed up until now. "Is this some form of joke?"  
  
"Don't you read The Far Side?" I asked. "Look, the cow is grilling HAMBURGERS, and the other cows see him, right? It's like a human cooking humanburgers."  
  
"Not the ridiculous picture," he muttered through clenched teeth, "the date!"  
  
"Uh, yeah, August 2nd, 2003. Have you been smoking something?" I asked suspiciously.  
  
He looked me straight in the eye, regaining some of his poise.  
  
"The year, madam, is 1887. I would like to know why you have a calendar with a date one hundred and sixteen years in the future."  
  
I snorted with laughter.  
  
"Look," I said, "I'm an actor, too. I see guys like you all the time. There's a difference between a play and reality. Learn it. In the meantime, please wake up and join the twenty-first century."  
  
"Twenty-first century?!" shouted Watson in disbelief. "I cannot believe it! I SHALL not believe it! It is an elaborate deception Holmes, perpetrated by your enemies."  
  
He paced up and down the length of my small living room, looking at my belongings as if they were poison. Holmes seated himself in an armchair, eyes closed, fingers steepled together, deep in thought. As I dodged out of Watson's determined path, I decided I'd had enough.  
  
I usually have good instincts about people; for the first time in my life they'd been wrong, and I'd just let two wackos into my house.  
  
"Will you please leave, right now?" I asked, preparing to dive for the phone if necessary.  
  
Holmes' eyes flew open and he grabbed my wrist.  
  
"Please do not do this," he said urgently. "This sounds unbelievable to my own ears, but some way, some how, Watson and I have moved through time. I cannot explain it, but it is the only explanation that covers all the facts."  
  
"Time travel is impossible," I said flatly. "I like Star Trek as much as the next person and time travel may not be impossible in the future, but it is impossible now, and it sure as heck was impossible in 1887."  
  
"I agree that it is improbable, but every other solution I have thought of is impossible. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." [1]  
  
"Listen," I said, barely hearing him, "I don't know who you are, or what you're trying to pull, but leave my apartment now or I will call the police. You should also know that my boyfriend is a cop, and he's on duty today. You don't want to be here if I have to call him."  
  
Holmes looked as if he would protest again, but thought better of it and turned to Watson.  
  
"Come Watson," he said, "it is obvious we are not wanted here. We shall seek shelter elsewhere and determine our next course of action then. Goodbye, Miss Peterson," sarcastically, "and thank you for all your help."  
  
He dragged a still-visibly-upset Watson out of the door.  
  
I watched them from the window with a sick feeling in my stomach. Holmes really rubbed me the wrong way, and I was glad to see him go, but Watson . . . well, I felt like I'd just thrown a puppy out into the snow to freeze.  
  
I gave myself a shake. What was I thinking? These guys were nuts, and I was probably lucky they hadn't tried to kill me! But I couldn't shake that feeling that I'd done something horribly wrong.  
  
The feeling persisted all afternoon. I tried my best to forget it by keeping myself busy. I read monologues, but didn't memorize a word. I tried working on a costume, and had to unpick the same seam five times. Finally I gave up and decided to read a book instead.  
  
As I glanced over my bookshelves I found my eyes drawn to a slim volume on the second shelf. I read the title on the spine and felt a jolt of recognition as I saw:  
  
The Cases of Sherlock Holmes by John Watson, MD  
  
That was why the names had seemed so familiar to me! I remembered a science teacher in high school using this book as an example of how to achieve results through observation and deduction. I had been impressed with it, and managed to get a copy for myself. That had taken some doing. It was a little known piece of work from the early 1890s and had only been through a few printings.  
  
It was a collection of a few criminal cases that had been solved by a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes. They were written as aids for crime-solving professionals, focusing on the facts, and their logical solutions. Apparently John Watson had been a close friend, and on the death of Holmes in 1891, Watson had published the cases he felt best showcased his friend's considerable talents.  
  
What were the odds, I thought, of there being two pairs of men named Holmes and Watson? For that matter, what were the odds of there being two men named Sherlock? Could it be possible . . . ? I gave myself a shake. No. Of course not. Sherlock might be an unusual name, but there must be others. There have been two men named Engelbert Humperdinck after all. I forced myself to forget it and turned on the television to watch the news.  
  
After a few minutes of the same doom and gloom stories, I went to the kitchen to start dinner, returning just in time to hear:  
  
" . . . and in other news, two men were arrested this afternoon after causing a disturbance in a local restaurant. Few details are available at this time, but it is believed the confrontation started when the men attempted to leave without paying. It is also believed that the men may be outpatients of a psychiatric hospital. Police are contacting the local facilities in an attempt to identify them."  
  
Holmes and Watson's pictures appeared on the screen.  
  
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[1] Quote is from Silver Blaze, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. 


	3. Jailbirds R Us

Author's Note: Sorry to keep you folks waiting for this, but the curse of writer's block was upon me.  Hopefully the longer chapter will make it worth the wait.  Thanks to all of you who have been posting encouraging reviews!  And now, without further adieu I present: Chapter 3 – Jailbirds "R" Us

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  *sobs*  It's just not fair!  I guess I'll just have to content myself with owning Meg and Sean.

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Stunned, I dropped into a chair, my dinner forgotten on the stove.  I kept watching TV, hoping to hear more about the arrests, but nothing else was said.  I sat there for nearly half an hour, until I was distracted by the smoke alarm.  The next few minutes were rather crowded.

When I had time to think again, as I put the baking soda back in the cupboard, I found my thoughts returning to the news story.  Considering how suspicious I'd been of them, you would think that my feelings would be that of relief.  After all, I'd been right hadn't I?  The news report even said that the police were inquiring at mental hospitals.  _I probably had a close call_, I thought, trying to scrape charred stew out of the pot.

Amid all these thoughts, however, my mind was relentlessly dragged back to the book I'd found.  If these men really were the Holmes and Watson from the book, if they really were time travellers, what would happen to them?  Even assuming they got out of jail and weren't sent to a psychiatric hospital, how would they cope with modern life?  Watson, although a skilled doctor in his own time, would be hopelessly out of date with modern practices.  Holmes might adapt a bit easier, but without any kind of identification, any kind of personal records, they would never be able to find any sort of work.

I began to feel horribly guilty.  After all, it was my fault they'd had to go to a restaurant where they didn't know how things worked.  Maybe they'd tried to pay with old coins that weren't in circulation.  Maybe they'd made the mistake of telling the police they were time travellers.  Maybe . . . .

No!  I gave myself a shake.  What was wrong with me?  A minute ago I'd been relieved to have them off the street, and now I'd almost convinced myself they really were time travellers.  There was only one solution to this; they were loony, plain and simple.

_But what if you're wrong,_ came the thought, loud and clear.  I tried to ignore it, and instead concentrated on the black gunk that seemed fused to the bottom of my pot.

As I worked, I heard keys in the front door lock, and a couple of seconds later my boyfriend Sean appeared in the doorway.  He sniffed the air for a moment, and then glanced at the charcoal mess in the garbage.

"I guess we're ordering Chinese again?" he said, grinning as he kissed me.

"It wasn't my fault this time!" I said, indignantly.  "I got distracted by a story on the news."

"Oh? Which one?"

"The two men arrested in the restaurant today," I said.  Then, trying to appear casual, I added, "Did you make the arrest?"

"No," replied Sean.  "It was in my district, but Ted Summers handled it.  I saw the report, though, and Ted told me about it.  Kind of a weird situation."

"Really," I said, "in what way?  Assuming you can tell me, of course."

"Oh sure," he said.  "It's not that big of a deal.  It was a pretty simple situation: these two guys had dinner at this restaurant, and when the bill came, they made a fuss about the cost, then tried to pay with British coins that aren't in circulation anymore; shillings and such.  On top of that, they didn't have nearly enough to cover the bill."

"But that doesn't sound criminal," I said, "so why were they arrested?"

"Well, the restaurant manager was out there yelling, and Ted happened to be passing by, so he intervened.  Unfortunately, the tall one called Ted an "imbecilic Scotland Yard buffoon", and, well, you know what Ted's like."

I groaned.  I did know what Ted Summers was like, and after that remark, Holmes and Watson were probably lucky they hadn't been sent up the river already.

"So they were a couple of nutcases, then," I said, still trying to sound casual.

He snorted.

"That was Ted shooting his mouth off.  It sounds a lot better to say, 'I arrested two crazies,' than 'I arrested a couple of stinking drunks'.  Sounds better to the press, too.  I think they were having a slow news day."

This was an interesting development.

"They were drunk?"

"Pickled to the gills.  I saw them when they came in, and they could barely stand upright.  Positively reeked of the stuff.  Looked like they'd spilled quite a bit on themselves, too."

"So what's going to happen to them," I asked.

"Oh, not much.  They got thrown in the drunk tank to sleep it off.  The owner of the restaurant might have pressed charges, except that the manager happened to be an amateur coin collector, and he recognised one of their old shillings as being worth about fifty dollars.  The owner agreed to take that as payment of their bill."  He stretched and yawned.

"Listen, Maggie, I'll call for take-out, and then I'm going to take a quick nap on the couch before it comes.  It's been kind of a tiring day."

With that, Sean left the kitchen, leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts.

This was not getting any easier.  They'd tried to pay with old British shillings.  That certainly led some credibility to the time travel theory.  After all, they wouldn't have known about inflation, or that Britain had switched to a decimal-based currency.  If they were actors, surely they wouldn't have gone so far as to be arrested.  Of course, if they were drunk . . . . 

I thought, and I thought, and had finally made up my mind what to do, when I heard Sean calling from the living room.  I went in to see what he wanted, and he was holding up a black leather bag.

"Maggie," he said, sounding puzzled, "is this yours?"

Unfortunately, I quickly recognised it.  It was Watson's medical bag.  He must have forgotten when he left.  But what to tell Sean?  I certainly couldn't tell him that it might belong to a man from the nineteenth century, and I _definitely couldn't tell him I'd let two strangers into the house.  He was looking at me expectantly, though, and suddenly I knew what to say._

"It's a prop," I said brightly.  "A couple of my friends are in town, acting in a Victorian play, and they stopped by today.  They wanted me to look at their costumes and make sure they were authentic looking.  They must have forgotten the bag when they left."

He laughed.  "That reminds me," he said.  "Those drunks this afternoon were wearing Victorian costumes. I got a look at them as they came in, and I remember thinking how you'd love to see them, they looked so real and . . . ."  His voice trailed off and he looked at me, comprehension dawning on his face.

"Meg," he said suspiciously, "you know those people don't you?  That was why you were so interested in what happened."

I sighed; I was trapped.  Fortunately, as I had finally decided what to do, this gave me a great opening.

"All right," I said reluctantly, "they're the guys that stopped by this afternoon."  He just looked at me, waiting.

"And . . . I was wondering, can we help them at all?"  I batted my eyelashes in my most appealing way.  If this had been The Simpsons, there would have been sound effects.

Sean sighed, and then started to laugh.  He's a sucker for the eyelash routine.

"All right," he said resignedly, "let's go down there and see what we can do.  It shouldn't be too hard; like I said, they're just in the drunk tank.  Not like we're doing anything illegal."

I grinned.  "Thanks honey," I said, giving him a big hug and kiss, and dragging him out the door.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we were at the police station.  While Sean went to see about getting Holmes and Watson released, I was allowed into the holding area to see them.  It was still early in the evening, and the cells were fairly empty, so Holmes and Watson were alone in their cell.  I approached quietly, hoping to observe them for a moment before they were aware of me.  All was quiet; Watson lay stretched out on a narrow cot, possibly sleeping, while Holmes sat on another one, eyes closed as if in meditation.  Neither appeared to be the least bit drunk.

I stepped up to the bars and cleared my throat to alert them to my presence.

Without opening his eyes, Holmes said, "Good evening, Miss Peterson,"

My jaw dropped.  "How did you know it was me," I asked, "I haven't said a word, and you've had your eyes closed the whole time!"

"It was quite simple, really.  I observed earlier that you wear a very distinctive scent.  I recognised it immediately.  Quite reminiscent of someone who has fallen into a cart of rotten oranges."

"Now just a minute . . . ," I began, heatedly.  He interrupted me.

"Miss Peterson, I can only assume that you did not come here to debate the merits of your cologne.  Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me as to why you are here, since you made it abundantly clear earlier that you wanted nothing to do with us.  And please, do it quietly.  I would hate to disturb Watson's rest.  He has had a trying day."

I nearly walked out right there.  I didn't have to take this kind of abuse.  Here I was, all prepared to help them, and all Holmes wanted to do was insult me.  I managed to choke down my anger, however, and I reminded myself that Holmes didn't know I wanted to help them, and that, based on my behaviour this afternoon, he had no reason to think otherwise.

"Okay," I said, folding my arms and staring at him.  "What if I told you I might possibly believe your story?"

At these words, Holmes opened his eyes and came to the bars where I was standing.

"And what, Miss Peterson, has changed your mind so dramatically?"

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you that," I said.  "Let's just say I came across some information that tips the balance a bit in your favour.  But I still want some more proof."

"And what would you consider proof, madam?"

I had a thought a lot about what kind of proof he could give me, and it finally occurred to me that if Doctor Watson had not exaggerated in his book, there would be very few people in the world, even today, who could do what Holmes was capable of.  I was going to test him.

"You can start," I said, "by telling me as much as possible about myself."

A faint smile flickered across his lips, the first I had seen on his face yet.

"Other than the fact that you play the guitar, sing, suffer from a chronic respiratory condition, are an actress, have a fascination with the Renaissance, require reading glasses, and spend a great deal of time out of doors, I am afraid I can deduce nothing."

For the second time, my jaw dropped.  Even though I had half been expecting this, I was still amazed.  He still had to pass the second part of my test, though.

"Tell me how you deduced this," I said, trying to hide my surprise.

"Quite simple," he said impatiently.  "That you were interested in music I deduced from the treble clef earrings you wear.  The calluses on the fingers of your left hand suggest that you play a string instrument.   If you will observe, the fingers of my left hand are callused in a similar manner because I play the violin.  However, I knew you did not because you are lacking a mark on your chin where it holds the violin.  You could play the cello or the double bass, but I think not.  You are a singer; I could tell that from the tone of your voice, and the way you breathe.   It then seemed logical that you would play the guitar, because you could accompany yourself with it, something that would not likely be done on cello or bass.

"You speak very quickly, and in one breath if possible.  From this I determined that you are accustomed to being short of breath, and therefore attempt to use each breath fully.  You have a mark on either side of your nose where the pads on a pair of glasses would rest, but you are not wearing any; I deduce you do not need them at all times.  Ergo, reading glasses.   Also . . . ,"

"All right, all right, I believe you," I cried. "You'd go on all day if I let you, wouldn't you!"

Holmes looked mildly offended.  "If I may remind you, madam, it was you, not I, who insisted that I tell you about yourself."

I sighed.  "You're right," I said.  "I apologise.  And . . . I'd like to help you.  As strange as your story sounds, I'm willing to believe you."

He stared hard at me for a moment, then his whole face relaxed, although he didn't smile.

"Apology accepted, Miss Peterson.  And thank you."

Holmes then woke Watson up.  I had to admit that Watson looked a whole lot better than he had earlier.  He was quite calm, and strangely accepting of what had happened.  This confused me at first, considering how upset he'd been before, but it later occurred to me that, as a doctor, Watson had to possess the ability to remain calm in all circumstances.  It wasn't his fault that these circumstances were a little more upsetting than most.

He seemed pleased to see me, probably because I was the only familiar face he was likely to see here.  Before I even had a chance to ask him how he was doing, he was asking me about my head, and scolding me for not resting at home.  I rolled my eyes, but had to smile at his solicitousness.

I explained that Sean was getting them released, and told them the story I had made up about them being actors and friends of mine.  Their eyebrows rose slightly at this, but they agreed that it probably wouldn't be wise to tell Sean the truth just yet.  Convincing them that they should stay with me was a little bit harder.

Holmes looked mildly shocked and Watson blushed a deep, deep red.  They both protested that it wouldn't be proper, and even after I explained that it was perfectly all right in this day and age, they still looked uncomfortable.  It was only when I pointed out that neither of them had money to rent anything, and I certainly couldn't afford to give them a loan, that they finally agreed.  It was my place or the streets.

We had barely finished making arrangements when an officer entered the holding area and let Holmes and Watson out of their cell.  We met up with Sean in front of the precinct.

"Sorry that took so long," he said to me, "I had to convince the desk sergeant that you really did know the guys.  These them?" he asked.

"Uh yeah," I said, "Sean, this is John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.  Guys, this is my boyfriend Sean Malone.  He's the officer that got you released."

"A pleasure," Sean said dryly.  "I have to say, you guys don't look too drunk."

I opened my mouth to answer, but Holmes beat me to it.

"We've been sleeping it off, officer," he said, slurring his words ever so slightly, "but we sure aren't feeling too well right now."

I couldn't believe it.  His precise Victorian English had disappeared.  He still had the accent, but he sounded much more modern.  He must have picked up the dialect that he'd heard in the space of an afternoon, and he sounded incredibly believable.  I was impressed.

"Yeah, well, next time you get drunk, try not to start insulting police officers.  I'll give you a tip: we don't like it.  Have you guys got a place to stay?  Desk sergeant says if they find you on the street again tonight, they'll charge you with vagrancy."

"They're going to stay with me, Sean," I said, "I kind of feel responsible; they'd asked to stay with me before, and I said I didn't have room.  I sort of feel like it's my fault they were in the restaurant getting drunk."

Sean nodded, failing to notice that Watson was blushing again.  He moved to the curb to flag down a cab, and I took the opportunity to ask Holmes a question.

"So, do you have any idea how you ended up here?"

"My dear Miss Peterson," Holmes replied, "_how_ can wait.  The important question is _why_, and of course, _whom_."


	4. Welcome to the 21st Century

Author's Note:  Oh me!  Sorry it's taken nearly three weeks for this chapter folks, but real life kind of intruded.  Thanks for all the positive reviews you've been giving me, and I _promise_ to get the next chapter up quicker.  Cheers folks!

Standard Disclaimer: Don't own any of Doyle's stuff, do own all of my stuff.

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It was nine o'clock by the time we finally got back to my apartment that night.  Sean dropped us off outside, then went home to his place in the cab.  He wanted to stay the night, but I gave him an excuse about having to be at work early the next morning (which _was_ true).  I felt bad, but I hadn't told Sean who Holmes and Watson really were, and I was afraid one of us would slip up in front of him.

Since none of us had eaten dinner yet, I ordered in a pizza.  The two time travellers looked askance at it at first, but eventually tried it, and loved it.  While we were eating, I asked Holmes a question that had been bugging me.

"Just how did you guys manage to convince the police you were drunk?" I asked.

Holmes smiled.

"Quite a simple trick," he replied.  "When I saw the officer approaching, I realized how inconvenient it would be if Watson and I were questioned at any length.  To that end, when the restaurateur went to meet the policeman, I gave a few words of instruction to Watson, and we thrust brandy-soaked handkerchiefs (we had each enjoyed a glass with our luncheon) down our collars.  We then proceeded to act intoxicated.  As you must have observed, the result was that they treated us as common drunkards, and judged our actions accordingly."

I had to admit, I was impressed and I said so.

"Quite.  I do not, however, wish to discuss parlour tricks at present.  What I wish to discuss is our current situation."  With these words, Holmes settled himself into a chair, and looked at me expectantly.  I, however, was exhausted and was much more inclined to go to bed.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said, "but can we discuss this in the morning?  I'm really tired and I need to go to sleep."  Hoping to distract them, I turned on the television before they could say another word.

Needless to say, it worked.  Holmes and Watson were astonished and asked me dozens of questions.  I answered them as best I could, and showed them what each button did on the remote control.  When I went to bed, after showing them how to open the pullout couch, they were already . . . debating . . . who should get to use the controller.  Just goes to show you that men are alike, no matter what century they're from.

I had a restless sleep that night, with lurid dreams haunting me.  I was running down a dark corridor, while a nameless horror chased me.  Suddenly I saw a light and ran towards it, only to find myself falling through the air and landing in a glass of brandy.  I sank to the bottom, where I found Holmes and Watson having a tea party with a giant pizza, and above it all rose the clicking sound of a remote control . . . .

I awoke with a start, and lay in bed for a moment as the dream faded, vowing never to eat pizza that late again.  A glance at my clock showed me it was almost eight.  Wanting to sleep for another hour, but knowing I should get up and see to my "guests", I forced myself to sit up, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"Meowrr!!!"

Oops.

Leaving my cat to sulk under the bed, I staggered sleepily into the living room.  I wasn't sure what to expect, whether Holmes and Watson would still be asleep or not.  To my surprise, they were not only awake, but dressed as well, each of them sitting in a chair, absorbed in the television.  I glanced at the bed; it hadn't been slept in.  And a new generation of TV addicts is born.

As soon as they caught sight of me, they rose to their feet.  Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but I held up my hand.

"Coffee first," I said, "then speak."  They looked puzzled, but followed me into the kitchen, where I poured us each a cup.  Automatic coffee makers are a gift from the gods.  My coffee maker interested them very much, and I could practically see the wheels turning in Holmes' head as he tried to figure out how it worked.  Two cups later I felt human enough to speak.

"Did you guys even sleep last night?" I asked.  They exchanged guilty glances, and Watson spoke hurriedly.

"We had every intention of getting a proper night's sleep, I assure you miss," he said, "and then we found something on the . . . ," he hesitated over the word, " . . . television.  A movie, I believe you called it.  It was absolutely enthralling."  He chuckled.  "What imaginations these authors do have!"

Interested, I asked what movie they'd watched.

"I believe it was called _Apollo 13_.  Imagine, taking a trip to the moon!  How preposterous!"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that _Apollo 13_ was a true story.

Holmes had been quietly sipping his coffee all this time, and when Watson finished speaking, he asked again to discuss their situation.

"Well, I'm not sure just what we can do," I said.  "We have no way of knowing how you got here.  And even if we did, who's to say we could get you back?  It might have been some kind of natural phenomenon, some kind of interdimensional portal, and everything might be a huge paradox!"

They both looked at me like I'd grown another head.  I made a mental note to make them watch some _Star Trek_.

"The point is," I continued, "there are so many different possibilities, and it's not like we can go out knocking on doors asking, 'excuse me, you wouldn't happen to have a time machine in your basement that's recently transported two men from Victorian England, would you?'  You guys don't even look like you belong here."

Holmes fixed me with a hard stare.

"Then make us belong."

"All right," I sighed.  "I'll see what I can do.  But it'll have to wait until this afternoon.  I have to leave for work in an hour.  You guys should stay inside today.  The last thing we need is for you to get arrested again."

Holmes glared at me, looking as if he was about to object, but I turned my back and left them sitting at the table.  Once in my room I managed to shower and dress in record time.  I gave myself a satisfied look in the mirror, and walked back into the living room.

Which is where I found Holmes and Watson smoking.

After sputtering a few incoherent words, I rushed over to my balcony door and flung it open.

"Out," I cried, "outside!"  They looked at me with understandably bewildered expressions.  "If you're gonna smoke, do it outside!"  I practically shoved them out the door.

They protested, and I tried to explain to them why I didn't want them smoking in the house.  Here's some free advice to anyone who ever finds herself in my situation.  Trying to explain modern attitudes about smoking and lung cancer to a Victorian man who views smoking as a gentlemanly activity, is darn near impossible.  I was at least able to convince them that smoking in my house would not endear them to me, and so, having won that small battle, I went to work, leaving Holmes and Watson watching _Regis and Kelly.  Who knew?_

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Author's Note:  Stay tuned for the next chapter, in which the mystery of Holmes and Watson's time travel will begin to be uncovered.  Promise.


	5. War and Peace

Author's Note:  Well, look at that!  Two weeks instead of three!  And it's a longer chapter.  I'm on a role!

 March Hare: Sorry, my lips are sealed on the identity of the villain. . .at least for another couple of chapters.  But you can have a cookie anyway, 'cause cookies are yummy.  They're a great way to comfort yourself when your favourite hockey team loses _six to one_ in game 7.  No, I'm not bitter at all. . . .

Anyway, without further procrastination, I present to you: Chapter 5 – War and Peace.

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It was a long day at work. I finally dragged myself home about four o'clock, my whole body desperately craving a cup of tea. I opened my front door and found Watson thoroughly engrossed in some kind of medical program. I think they were doing open-heart surgery; I _really tried not to look too closely. As soon as Watson saw me, he rose to his feet. I noticed that he did this every time I entered the room. An ingrained Victorian sensibility, I guessed. Oddly enough, I kind of liked it._

To my delight, Watson had remembered the instructions I'd given him that morning on how to work the electric kettle, and had thoughtfully made a fresh pot of tea. I hadn't expected him to know his way around a kitchen, but he informed me that it was practically compulsory for an Englishman to know how to make a good cup of tea. As we sat on the couch, each with a cup, Watson asked me about my life. I told him a little bit, and then asked him the same question. We must have chatted for an hour, Watson telling me all about life with Holmes on Baker Street.

"He has his peculiarities, which certainly make life interesting," Watson said with a laugh.

I rolled my eyes. 

"I imagine he's a difficult man to live with," I said dryly.

"Oh, please don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "Despite his eccentricities, one could not wish for a better roommate, or for that matter, a better friend. There have been times when his habits have caused me frustration, but I would bear much more for the sake of our friendship. Besides, I'd wager I have my own oddities, which Holmes finds equally annoying!"

I rubbed at the back of my neck where I could feel a knot forming.

"Sorry Watson," I said.  "I'm not usually like this.  It's been a long day, and I can get a wee bit irrational when I'm tired and stressed."

Talking about Holmes made me suddenly realize I hadn't seen him at all yet, and I'd been home at least an hour. When I first got home, I had assumed he was in the washroom, or smoking on the balcony, and hadn't thought anything of it. I had forgotten about him completely as Watson and I talked, but the mention of him had reminded me, and I was starting to wonder. I asked Watson where Holmes was. Instead of answering me, he stood up and began fussing with the teapot. He wouldn't even meet my eye.

"Watson," I said warningly, "I know he can't be anywhere in the apartment. So where is he?"

"Perhaps he is smoking his pipe on your terrace," he said, while still not looking at me.

"Watson, you're a lousy liar. Now where has he gone?"

Watson sighed as one defeated. 

"I believe he has gone for a walk. He became rather restless waiting for you and decided to explore a bit." 

I felt like banging my head on the wall. What the heck was wrong with this guy? What did he not understand about 'don't leave the apartment'? Before I could say anything, however, the door opened and the man himself walked in, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. I, on the other hand, could actually feel my blood pressure rising.

"Where the heck have you been?" I screeched. "Didn't I say this morning, before I left, that you should stay here today? Didn't I say that you don't look like you belong here? Didn't I say that you could be arrested again? Or does none of that actually matter to you?"

Holmes fixed me with the same look he'd used that morning. Even though he stayed where he was, I found myself backing up a pace or two. The man was seriously intimidating.

"In the first place," he said, "you did not order us to stay inside. You said, and I believe I quote you correctly, 'you guys should probably stay inside today.' The presence of the word 'probably' changes your sentence from a command to a suggestion."

I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off.

"In the second place, you cannot expect me to sit around and do nothing. Perhaps you, Miss Peterson, would be perfectly at home in another time, but it is not how I would prefer to spend the rest of my life. Can your irrational female brain possibly comprehend that?"

Before I knew what I was doing, I had hauled off and slapped Holmes full across the face. Hard. He staggered backwards and I don't know what either of us would have done next, but at that point Watson stepped between us. When he spoke, his voice was low with anger. He didn't shout, but the quietness of his voice was more effective than any yelling.

"You will both stop this nonsense right now," he said. "You are behaving like children. I have only known you for a day, Miss Peterson, but I had thought you were an intelligent, rational young woman. As for you Holmes, I have known you for several years, and despite that, I would never have believed that you could behave this way. I can only hope that it is a delayed reaction to the stress of our situation. I certainly do not wish to spend the rest of my life here, as fascinating as this century is, but I can see that I shall have to resign myself to that inevitability. As long as the two of you are unable to work together, it appears we are stranded with no hope. And for a doctor to give up hope, it is a very serious situation indeed."

With those words, he turned and walked out onto the balcony. As the door closed behind him, Holmes and I, who had been gaping after him, looked at each other in embarrassment. Then Holmes held out his hand.

"My utmost apologies for the way I have behaved, Miss Peterson," he said sincerely. "I can only plead the stress of the situation as Watson said. I am accustomed to being in control. To relinquish it is no easy thing for me."

I took his hand and shook it.

"I'm sorry, too," I said, just as sincerely. "I guess this is kind of stressful for me as well. I mean, it's not everyday you have people from the nineteenth century as your houseguests. I really do want to help you, but I guess I forgot that just because you're from a different time, doesn't mean you aren't adults with brains of your own. Now, come with me to the kitchen and I'll give you some ice for your cheek. It's looking a little swollen."

When Watson entered the kitchen a half hour later, he found Holmes icing his cheek while I made dinner, and the two of us having a pleasant and innocuous conversation about music.  When I noticed him standing uncertainly in the doorway, I tossed a tomato at him.

"Here, Doc," I said as he caught it. "You should be good with a knife; you can chop that for me."

He smiled and did as I asked, joining in our conversation.  Although not a musician himself, Watson had a thorough appreciation of music, which made his remarks very welcome.  No one referred to the unpleasantness that had occurred.

We had a very nice dinner together.  Despite Sean's wisecracks, I am a good cook. Honestly, you burn two stews and make a batch of gravy that a dog refuses to eat, and suddenly you're branded for life.  But I digress.

When we had finished, I looked at Holmes, and he turned to Watson with an expression I had not yet seen on his face: humility.  I followed his lead and adopted the same expression myself.

"Watson," said Holmes, "Miss Peterson and I would like to offer you our sincere apologies for the way we have behaved.  We have discussed the situation, and have agreed that it is in the best interests of everyone involved if we work together from now on.  Can you ever forgive us, Watson?"

Watson smiled delightedly and shook both our hands.

"Of course I can, my dear fellow," he said.  "We shall consider this forgotten and move forward.  Holmes, Miss Peterson, I thank you."

"All right," I said, "let's discuss things.  But first things first . . .you guys have got to call me Meg.  Every time you say 'Miss Peterson' I look around for my aunt.  It makes me nervous.  If you have to, you can use Margaret, but if you call me Marg you'll die a slow and painful death; my last name is not Delahunty."  They looked at me blankly.  "Er. . .never mind," I said.

"Very well. . .Margaret," said Holmes, hesitating over my name.  "Now then, I have had a productive afternoon.  During my walk I took the opportunity to return to the park where we first encountered you.  I thought it might be instructive to retrace our steps.  Fortunately, it has not rained in the past twenty-four hours, and so I was able to follow our footprints back to the exact point where we appeared in the park.  It is quite extraordinary; the footprints simply appear out of nowhere."

"That _is_ extraordinary, Holmes," said Watson, "But how does determining the point at which we appeared help us to get home?"

"If you will allow me to finish, Watson.  Not only do the footprints appear out of nowhere, but there are _four sets of prints_."

Having thrown this bomb, Holmes sat back and watched with smug satisfaction as Watson and I looked at each other in astonishment.

"Wait a second," I said when I recovered my power of speech.  "How could there possibly be _four different prints?  Are you saying that two more people came through time?  If that's the case, how come we haven't heard anything about them?  I mean, what do you think the chances are that they met someone as naïve and trusting as me?  Honestly, there aren't many people out there who would accept a time travel story."_

"I have not formed any kind of theory yet. . .Margaret," Holmes replied, a bit impatiently.  "I do not have enough data.  At this point in time, the only tangible clues I have are the footprints and this rather unusual little box that I found near them.  It is not something I have ever seen before; perhaps you can identify it . . .Margaret."  Okay, that was the third time he'd hesitated over my name.  Understandably, I was getting a bit peeved.

"Is my name so difficult to remember?" I asked.  Politely, of course, I hadn't forgotten my promise to Watson.

"No," replied Holmes.  "It is just that I rarely refer to someone by their first name.  I am slightly out of practice."

I sighed.

"All right.  Call me by my last name then; I notice that's how you address Dr. Watson." 

"Very well, Peterson."  Right away he seemed more comfortable.  "Now then, does this object look familiar to you?"  He handed me the item.

"Oh, sure it does.  It's a . . .well that's strange," I said staring at the object.

"What is it?" asked Watson.

"Well, it's a cell phone, but it doesn't work.  Look, see what happens. . .wait, I should probably explain telephones to you guys first."  They nodded with relief, and I spent the next few minutes introducing them to the wonders of modern communication.

"So you see," I finished, "when I dial the numbers and press send, it should connect and start ringing, but that's not happening.  I should also be able to get into the different menus, but only the number keys seem to work."

"Might it simply be broken?" asked Watson, examining the phone carefully.

"Probably," I said, "but I've never heard of one malfunctioning like this before.  It's also weird that the number for this phone shows up when I turn it on, but when I try to dial it from my own telephone, I get told the number is not in service.  A broken phone shouldn't affect the account itself.  I'm not a techno-geek though, so I really couldn't tell for sure.  We'd have to take it into a repair shop or something.  You know, there's something familiar about this, but I can't think what it is.  Holmes, what makes you think this has any relation to your appearance here, or the extra set of footprints?  It could have been dropped by anyone."

"I think not," said Holmes.  "The footprints made by Watson and myself are very well preserved.  This suggests that the ground was damp when they were made.  I do not recall a substantial amount of mud, however, so I would venture to say it had rained no later than nine o'clock that morning.  The ground had dried a little, but was still damp."  I nodded; there had been a brief shower that morning.  I'd been caught in it on my way to work.

"Now then," Holmes continued, "the other footprints are not so distinct.  Therefore, they must have been made after the ground had dried.  The mark left by this cell phone is of a similar depth.  From this I can draw the conclusion that the object was dropped at the same time as the other footprints were made.  There were also no other prints near the place it was dropped, so it must have been dropped by whoever made the footprints."  He finished this explanation with a flourish and dropped into a chair, as if daring us to challenge his findings.  Believe me, I had no inclination to.  Watson looked rather stunned.

"Holmes," he said slowly, "do you realize what you are suggesting?  Not only that two other people have traveled through time with us, but that one of them at least must have been here before if he had a piece of technology from this era!"

"I am not suggesting anything yet, Watson.  As I have said, I do not have enough data to form a conclusion.  However, the extra footprints and the cell phone are an excellent starting point for my investigation."  Holmes jumped to his feet, very animated now.  "I would like to continue it tomorrow, Peterson.  If I am to do that, I shall need clothing appropriate to your time.  I trust you have not forgotten our discussion of the morning?"

As it happened, I had not forgotten my promise to help them fit in, and had brought home some clothes from the shop.  I figured it would do until we had a chance to go shopping, anyway.  I began digging through the bag; pulling out different pieces of clothing, and making Holmes and Watson try them on.  They looked askance at some of the styles I gave them, but put them on nonetheless.  Finally they each settled on an outfit.  Holmes chose a pair of jeans and a turtleneck, while Watson went slightly dressier in khakis and a button-down shirt.  With the help of some gel I gave them modern hairstyles, and the transformation was complete.  They had changed from two old-fashioned, but distinguished, gentlemen, to a couple of _very_ cute twenty-first century men.  

I was highly tempted to hit the town and show them off.

Such pleasures, alas, were not to be.  Before I could suggest anything, the phone rang.  It was my agent calling me about an audition the next day.  That, unfortunately, meant an early night for me and another night of entertaining themselves for Holmes and Watson.  The last I saw of them that night, Holmes had buried his nose in a thick book, and Watson was watching a surgeon amputate someone's leg on television.


End file.
